Two Kingdoms
by FireHawk's Feather
Summary: "Aside from the boredom, the ach in his muscles, and the fact that he was basically alone in the middle of nowhere with dozens of starving Wolves circling around him, he was actually managing well. "
1. Chapter 1

I got my inspiration for this story from the book _Hawksong _by Amelia Atwater-Rhode. I do not own Sherlock BBC and its characters!

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Chapter One

Sherlock ruffled his wings in annoyance, shivering involuntarily as a gust of icy wind hit his back. Since he was on a spying trip where speed was essential, the Avian only wore black silky garments, which did nothing to block the freezing wind. Even though his wool coat seemed appealing at the moment, it was not an option because of its bulkiness and its strong scent that could attract the Wolves' uncanny sense of smell. The only thing he could do right now was to wait for the Wolf guards to change their post by the Palace, which meant that he would be trapped on the tree for a while.

With his black outfit and dark wings, Sherlock blended in with the shadows of the tree fairly well. Aside from the boredom, the ach in his muscles, and the fact that he was basically alone in the middle of nowhere with dozens of starving Wolves circling around him, he was actually managing well. The biggest problem and discomfort for the time being was the cold that seemed to seep into his bones.

Sherlock drew his long wings around himself tighter, hoping to conserve some heat. The last thing he wanted was to be captured because of something as mundane as slow movements caused by numb limbs. He glanced at the rolling waves of clouds in the sky, and signed.

It would rain soon, and he could not fly well in the rain.

Maybe _that _was the most urgent problem right now.

Sherlock peeked from his hiding spot, and observed the five men guarding the gate for the fourth time to pass the miserable time. One man was apparently as eager to leave his spot as Sherlock was, for he kept tossing the blade between his hands, clearly impatient to be done with the day. From the way the man stood, Sherlock could see that he was wounded with an arrow to his tibia about eight months ago, but not cared for properly, which lead to a massive infection and a bad limp. And the man next to him, married to a tall wife and had three kids, two of them died and the third would be joining the army next year-

His stomach suddenly rumbled in protest and Sherlock realized how long he had gone without any real food. His last meal, which was roughly three days ago, were several pieces of dried fruits he carried with him on this trip; and to a bird of prey like Sherlock, fruits were _not_ considered legit things to eat. Meat was the only type of food Sherlock would tolerate. Unlike other Avians, Sherlock could last a week without eating, mostly by his will power alone. However, after days of flying without much rest, even Sherlock couldn't take it any more.

Trying in vain to ignore the overwhelming hunger and cold tugging at his consciousness, Sherlock could not help but feel annoyed at the thought of his brother currently sitting at the table eating a warm meal inside a warm house. The image almost made Sherlock groan in frustration.

A flash of lightning wiped through the sky, snapping Sherlock out of his thoughts while signaling the inevitable storm. In less than a minute, the sky started to pour. The heavens heaved and roared, spilling raindrops as large as pebbles. The wind added to the chaos, blowing the drops of rain apart, and sent them down like needles. The tree provided as much shelter as a stick would, and soon Sherlock was drenched to tips of his wings. He knew that he had to get out of the woods fast, or he might be trapped if a lightning decided to light a tree on fire.

Sherlock peered through the leaves, seeing with satisfaction that the guards had been quite distracted by the storm. Bracing against the choking wind and coldness and rain, Sherlock leaped down from the branch he was perching on like a diver, and gained height slowly with his wings strained against the unpredictable wind pattern.

Suddenly, coming out of nowhere, an arrow with a strange head slammed straight into Sherlock's left arm. Sherlock gasped in surprise and tried to pull the arrow out. To his relief, it did not catch his bone; but the feeling was short-lived. The moment the arrow left his flesh, a wave of dizziness hit him like a wall and his wings stopped beating. His usual keen sense of direction was gone and he was left tumbling uselessly in the storm. Panic washed over him as he saw the ground spiraling closer and closer towards him. The world was shifting in color and shape, his vision was faltering, fading in and out like a candle in the wind… Sherlock could do nothing as his body fell heavily into the ground and darkness wrapped him in its wings.

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	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Sherlock gasped awake from a rush of chilly air that seemed to come from everywhere all at once. When he sluggishly tried to curl up his body in instinct, he found that he was lying on his stomach, restrained by rows of heavy ropes that crisscrossed across his body. Alarmed, Sherlock tried to sense his wings, which were being tied together behind his back. Another icy blast crashed down on him, and brought with it this time a rush of dust. With his hands bounded, the Avian could only blink furiously, trying to clear his eyes that were watering from the continuous dust accompanying the wind.

When he finally succeeded, he was able to deduce his surroundings – or as much as his drugged brain allowed him to: He was in a cylinder-like structure, with iron bars circling the side of the round floor he was lying on —which explained the omnipresent wind. Peering through the bars, Sherlock could make out the shuffling, spiky tops of ever-greens. So, he was high up, then. Maybe on the top of a tower.

Wait…a tower? Sherlock frowned as he reconsidered that. For all he knew, the Wolves did not build tall structures since the fierce gusts would send them crumbling to the ground in a matter of minutes. Also, the frequent earthquake would be too much of a risk -

An invisible force suddenly slammed straight into Sherlock's body, sending him tumbling and crushing into the bars. For a confusing second he thought he could feel the prison floor lurching sideways with him. Just as he gasped for breath, Sherlock was thrown again to the opposite side of the prison cell. This time, however, he could definitely feel the floor swaying with him, like a boat that sways with the motion of the sea. A suspicion formed inside Sherlock and, hoping what he thought was not true, Sherlock risked a glance at the top of what he thought was a regular prison cell, and felt his blood froze.

He was trapped in a large birdcage.

A cage that was only hanged high in the air by a twenty-foot long metal pole that had been planted into the ground.

Pure, boiling rage blinded him with scarlet, evaporating the ice in his blood in seconds. It was a feeling that only grew as he was being thrown around in the cage by the wind like a toy. The searing rage roared with burning humiliation as each jolt of the cage sent straight through his spine a jolt of fear.

After what seemed like an eternity, the tornado of wind died down at last, and Sherlock finally brought his emotions under control with straining concentration after rolling and rocking in the cage like a damn worm. He eventually convinced himself that being dehydrated and starving and exhausted made him lose his temper faster than usual: it was all transport interfering with his mind.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock experienced the fear of height. A fear that the Avians treated with contempt, for they ruled the sky and never understood the feeling that had been associated with death by the others. However, in his less than optimal situation, Sherlock knew that the slim poll could snap at any moment in the vicious wind, and with his wings restrained, he would fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes, die a nasty death with his head cracking open like a watermelon and his limbs snapping like twigs; most importantly, Sherlock decided gravely, his precious wings would be mingled - and that would be unacceptable.

The tornado was gone, but the iciness didn't leave the air. With an involuntary shudder followed by a pained groan, Sherlock assessed his condition: sore muscles and bones overall; dislocated right humerus; skinned right knee; pain in the lower back from slamming into the bars; twisted left foot; and, Sherlock noticed with dismay, lots of broken or missing feathers from his wings. He signed sadly at that last one on his list. Avians loved and trusted their wings with their life and cared for them obsessively. So it was almost heart breaking for Sherlock to see his wings at such a state. Almost. For Sherlock would not permit himself be carried away with sentiment at the critical moment, so he allowed himself another depressed sign.

The shrilling of the wind echoed throughout the barren mountains. It snapped at Sherlock's abused body, baring at him its invisible teeth. Sherlock didn't know how long he lied in that position, or how long he would be. His whole body had been frozen into a chunk of stone, moving only with the rocking of the cage. The only good thing so far was that the cold had numbed his nervous system, easing the throbbing pain; an act that Sherlock was truly grateful for.

At his half-conscious state, the screaming of the wind seemed to turn into the howling of the Wolves. The hollow and sharp sound pierced the darkness, along with the moon, whose penetrating light seemed to enhance the keen-edged blade of the wind, mercilessly assaulting the exposed Avian's senses.

Just when darkness was about to claim him once again, a pitch, deeper but colder than the wind, pulled him back to the conscious world. It sat his teeth on edge and his uncontrollable tremors increased, as if the howling along had lowered the temperature. The low sound vibrated through the air from the Devil's cello, calling awake once again from the Avian the deepest and oldest instinct: fear. The wind joined in with pleasure, forming one harmony from hell.

The Wolves were coming.

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